Paganistan: Notes from the Secret Commonwealth
In Which One Midwest Man-in-Black Confers, Converses & Otherwise Hob-Nobs with his Fellow Hob-Men (& -Women) Concerning the Sundry Ways of the Famed but Ill-Starred Tribe of Witches.
Of Horns, Fur, Paint, and Skin
Among all the hoodied and red-capped yahoos and yobbos who invaded the US Capitol on Wednesday, one stood out. You know which one I mean.
The one in the horns.
“Guy in horns Capitol” I image-searched. It was more than enough to find what I was looking for.
Horns, fur, paint, and skin. The eye automatically, as if by instinct, draws toward them. How could it not?
In long accordance with ancestral practice, I will not dignify said yob by naming him. Though he sports heathen tattoos and the regalia of the Horned God of Witches, he is (apparently) neither witch nor heathen.
No matter. He's not important. Soon the FBI will be hauling his saggy white ass off to jail, where it probably belongs anyway.
Horns, fur, paint, skin: in combination, instantly iconic. What is it about these primal elements that so draws the eye, that so draws the heart?
Who is it here that draws the heart and eye?
Ask the witches, my friend.
The witches know.
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